


Pancakes

by renn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renn/pseuds/renn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo and Kuryakin debate the merits of the pancake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for reapermum over on the LJ community mfuwss for an Easter Egg. Her prompt was "When Illya started learning idiomatic English it was in England, where a pancake was similar to a crepe and eaten on the Tuesday before Lent. Then he moved to the States and found that pancakes were different. And that wasn't the only difference he found."

Napoleon Solo pushed open the door of Ma’s Counter, letting the comforting smell of frying bacon wash over him. He and his partner had just wrapped up a long night in wait for Thrush to possibly take over the one of the television networks. Although Thrush staged a raid over at ABC, he and Kuryakin had been assigned to NBC, so they had a quiet-- if long and fruitless-- evening. Now, as the first hint of dawn washed the sky in deep pinks and oranges, he needed sustenance.

 

Kuryakin apparently needed it more, because he jockeyed past Solo, beelining for a booth in the back that afforded good views of both the door and the large plate glass window. He settled himself on the sparkly red vinyl seat and waved imperiously for the waitress to come over. The waitress-- a young, plump bottle blonde in a teal uniform a size too small for her and way too much make-up for the time of day-- smiled and waved back in acknowledgement as she wrapped things up with another customer. Kuryakin turned over his coffee cup in anticipation, then grabbed a menu out of its holder against the wall.

 

Solo chuckled as he slid into the booth opposite his partner. “Why do you even bother looking at the menu? You order the exact same thing every time we come in.” He turned over his cup. 

 

“So do you.”

 

“I do not.”

 

“Varying between three entrees is equivalent to ordering the same thing.”

 

“Yeah, but at least it’s a bit of variety. Order something different. The pancakes are to die for, you know.”

 

“I don’t like what passes as pancakes here.”

 

“‘Here’ as in ‘at Ma’s Counter’ or ‘here’ as in ‘the United States’?”

 

“The latter.”

 

“Have you ever had an American pancake?”

 

“I see no need to try one.” Illya raised his menu, to block his view of Napoleon and thus end the conversation.

 

“”If you say so,” Solo chuckled. “Of course, it ruins your reputation, you know.”

 

Illya slapped the menu down on the table, raising an eyebrow. “Which reputation would that be? The sure-shooter one? The frigid Russian one? The Dirty Commie one?”

 

“The Will Eat Anything Remotely Resembling Food one.”

 

“As far as I know, you’re the only one who thinks that of me.”

 

“I’m probably the only person in the entire organization you’ve eaten in front of.”

 

Ilya started replying, but decided against it because of the waitress’ arrival. She gave both agents a cheerful smile, “Mornin’, fellas,” she greeted, pouring them their coffee. “You’re a little earlier than usual this ayem.”

 

Solo shrugged. “No rest for the weary, Doreen. What looks good today?”

 

“Other than you two? Well, Ma’s trying out a new sausage recipe. Might be worth your while. Especially the patties.”

 

“Okay, I’ll have an order of sausage patties along with my waffles.”

 

“Strawberries, blueberries, or raspberries?”

 

“Strawberries. And a large glass of or--”

 

“--ange juice, yes.” Doreen turned to Illya. “Let me guess. Scrambled eggs, home fries, side of toast, strawberry jam on the side.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Give him a side of pancakes instead,” Solo corrected.

 

Both the Russian and the waitress gave Napoleon flummoxed looks. “Ah, pushing the American agenda, I see,” Kuryakin commented.

 

“You gotta live a little, that’s all. I’ll pick up the tab if you like it.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

“Then I will apologize.”

 

Illya sighed. “I can eat them in the manner in which I choose?”

 

“As long as you eat them.”

 

“Very well.” Illya glanced at Doreen. “Change the toast to pancakes... but still bring the jam.”

 

“You got it, sweetie.” Doreen went to put the order in.

 

The partners enjoyed their coffee in silence for a few moments. “Ok, I’ll bite,” Napoleon said finally. “What do you have against American pancakes?”

 

“They’re not proper, for one thing.”

 

Solo leaned back in the booth, folding arms across chest, an amused look on his face. “What’s your definition of ‘proper’? A blini?”

 

“Well, yes. Call it what you want-- blini, crepe, nalysnyky, pancake in England-- it’s a thin, floppy thing one wraps other things in.”

 

“But I’ve had American pancake-like things several times in Kiev.”

 

“Those would be blinchiki, probably. Those are made with yeast, not with baking soda or powder. Totally different creature, especially the next day.”

 

“Pancakes should never generate leftovers.”

 

“Certainly not American ones.”

 

“Snob.”

 

“Nationalist.”

 

“We’re all imperfect.” Solo gave his partner a disarming smile before switching topics to something safer.... like the forthcoming Congressional vote on amending the Social Security Act to provide healthcare for senior citizens and for the permanently disabled. Both knew they were on the same side of the argument, but they had fun crouching their agreement in over-the-top nationalistic stereotypes (Napoleon represented the conservatives, Illya the socialists). 

 

Doreen eventually brought their meals. Kuryakin started upon seeing the small plate of pancakes. In the flow of the fake debate, he had forgotten he had committed to the bland, uninspiring round bread-like product. He glanced at the plate, then at his partner, then again at the plate. He placed it and the jam off to the side and tucked into the potatoes.

 

“Ah... you should really eat those warm, you know.”

 

“The deal was I could eat them in the way I choose.”

 

Solo rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

 

The agents ate in silence, both enjoying the warm, savory items on their plates. Solo finished before Kuryakin; he pointedly glanced from partner to pancakes and back again as the Russian delayed the inevitable.

 

Kuryakin merely raised an eyebrow in challenge as he pulled pancakes, jam, and a knife toward him.

 

“Going to be gross, cold.”

 

“So say you.”  Kuryakin plopped two pancakes on his main plate, slathered the tops of both with jam, and slapped them together, jam sides touching. He took an experimental bite, nodded to himself, and quickly finished off the combination. He made himself another one with the remaining two pancakes, eating quickly before settling back against the booth with a vague content expression on his face.

 

“So...?” Solo ventured.

 

“Really needed azuki paste, but quite tolerable.”

 

“Azuki paste?”

 

“The Japanese have a sweet called dorayaki that’s basically two American pancakes sandwiched together with azuki-- sweet red bean-- paste.”

 

“You should suggest the paste to Ma.”

 

“Oh, I’ve not seen azuki outside of Japantown in San Francisco, in this country. Jam makes an acceptable substitute.” 

 

“Here you go, sweeties. I’ll take it whenever you’re ready.” Doreen placed the check on the table, refilled their coffee cups, and moved onto her next table.

 

Illya pushed the check toward his partner. “I believe this is all yours...?”

 

Napoleon nodded, taking the check. “Well done, my friend.”

 


End file.
